


The Adventure Of Old Baron Dowson (1900)

by Cerdic519



Series: Elementary 221B [189]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Deception, Destiel - Freeform, England (Country), Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Murder, Politics, Romantic Sherlock, Scotland, Untold Cases of Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-02
Updated: 2017-08-02
Packaged: 2018-12-10 05:19:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11684892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: Politics can make or mar – or in this case, murder - when there is a death that is quite literally across the Border. Plus Sherlock surprises John with The Kilt (and no, not just in that way!).





	The Adventure Of Old Baron Dowson (1900)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [supersockie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/supersockie/gifts).



It had been an unusually mild summer, with just the right balance of heat and breeze to make even London almost tolerable. We had reached September of that year before our next publishable case which, albeit indirectly, arose courtesy of our dear friend Superintendent Henriksen, who had just retired after our assistance to him earlier in the year (the Conk-Singleton Affair).

Sherlock had seemed busy with something that summer, and it was only when it was all done that I found out just what. He had been arranging with our friend's nephew Inspector Valiant Henriksen for his uncle to obtain the cottage in the Lakes that Victor and his wife had both dreamed of. And it was during those dealings that the inspector told Sherlock about a curious case, which had him sending down to London to ask me to take the first train up to join him. Which, of course, I did at once.

+~+~+

Shortly before I was born, the ancient certainties that had been the old Tory and Whig parties had been hit hard by the repeal of the hated Corn Laws, which had cleft the Tories in twain. The rump grouping had become the Conservative Party, whilst many of their former colleagues had joined the Whigs to form the Liberal Party. It had long been the expectation of political 'experts' (i.e. the ones who repeatedly forecast the wrong winners at general elections) that of all the divisive issues that afflicted the late nineteenth century United Kingdom, that of Home Rule (self-determination) for Ireland would be the one to complete the process of the forties and finally finish off the Tories. These predictions had achieved their usual degree of accuracy, such that the time of the events described herein, it was the Liberal Party which was divided and rudderless, a happening which was to have a direct effect on this adventure.

The year 1900 was five years since the last general election, which meant that a new one was set to be held in late September and October. At that time the Conservatives under Lord Salisbury had a small working majority on their own, but their position was greatly improved by the frequent support of around seventy Liberal Unionists, which gave them an effective majority of well over a hundred. The coming election would, significantly with the benefit of that wonderful thing called hindsight, mark the first members of parliament for the Labour Party, which would soon supplant the divided Liberals – impressive, considering that at the last election, the Liberals had scored around forty times as many votes as them.

It is a little known fact that there is a small area of England beyond Carlisle; the Border, on leaving the River Esk, runs first up the little River Sark before cutting across north of the Esk and then its tributary, the Liddell Water. In this small area lies the famous Solway Moss, site of one of the great English victories over the Scots (1542). On the Sark's western bank is the famous Dumfries-shire village of Gretna Green, the destination for runaway brides and grooms. Although by the time of this story, Scots law had belatedly been brought into line with its English counterpart on this issue, the place was still a popular destination for those who had the money, and they could even receive a blessing after their marriage in the local church from the village blacksmith, who had once been able to perform the marriage ceremony himself 'over the anvil'. 

I met Sherlock at Carlisle Citadel Station – it hardly seemed a full fourteen years since we had unexpectedly met (Victor) Henriksen there before the Adventure of the Slipshod Woman – and we journeyed on to Gretna. It was to the town police station that we directed ourselves, where we were to be met by Chief-Inspector Maclaren; I wondered at someone so important not meeting us in Dumfries, where the county constabulary was based, but he soon explained why.

“It is all about the politics, sirs”, he said in his pleasant Borderer accent. “Old Baron Dowson, he owns the land right up against the Border, and this is a very delicate matter.”

“Delicate in what way?” Sherlock asked. He was not at his best just then, the coffee that he had had at Carlisle having displeased him. And the local train here had been a corridor one, so he had been unable to vent his displeasure on my body, although I was sure that he would remedy that later. At least, I hoped!

“His son, Mr. Alan Armstrong, has disappeared, sir”, the chief-inspector said. “Very strange, it is.”

A constable chose that moment to knock and enter, and Sherlock's eyes lit up when he saw the coffee that the man had brought. I was hard put not to laugh, both at that and the chief-inspector's startled expression when Sherlock promptly downed a cup of steaming hot liquid in one go. I knew that if I had, I would have regretted it very soon after.

I really should have laughed.

“Yes”, our host said, recovering himself whilst I quickly poured Sherlock a second coffee. “You see, sirs, this county returns one member to parliament. When it was last contested five years ago, the Liberal candidate defeated the Liberal Unionist by just thirteen votes in over eight thousand.”

Sherlock downed his second cup as quickly as the first before answering, whilst I moved to our him yet another one.

“Ah”, he said. “And which side of that bitter contention does your Baron Dowson support, pray?”

“He is as Liberal as they come, sir”, the chief-inspector said. “A friend of Mr. David Lloyd George as well, not that I have any great regard for that gentleman myself. Unfortunately his son Mr. Alan was just as fiercely pro-Unionist. Their arguments were the talk of the village.”

Sherlock looked sharply at our host.

“Talking of the village, why did you wish to meet us here?” he asked. “We could just as easily have continued along the line to Dumfries itself?”

The chief-inspector reddened.

“That is where I was hoping you gentlemen might come in, sirs”, he said. “You see, the Chief Constable of the county, he is very vocal for Mr. Alan's Unionists. The Baron does not trust him to oversee an investigation into his son's disappearance.”

“Surely he has no choice?” I asked. “A Scotsman's home is, I know, his castle as much as an Englishman's, but the law is the law.”

“The baron is – at least, I hope – one of the last of the old barons, sirs”, the chief-inspector said. “He has a shotgun, and his policy is to shoot anyone coming onto his estate whom he suspects of not acting in his interests. The town delivery men refuse to go to the place any more.”

“Shooting anyone not disagreeing with his politics, I suspect you really mean”, Sherlock said, frowning. “This is difficult. You are asking me to investigate a possible crime, with no access to what is most likely the scene of said crime.”

“Inspector Henriksen speaks very highly of you, sir”, our host said. “He had to bring some documents to our area some weeks back, and he heard of the case then. He says that if anyone can make something out of so little, you surely can.”

“I fear that our Valiant friend may be stretching even my humble talents to the limit here”, Sherlock said. “But yes. I shall do what I can in this matter.”

+~+~+

“We do have one break in this case”, Sherlock said later as we sat in our rooms at the local hotel.

“What?” I asked.

“Because the election is coming, Baron Dowson will be going round the locality to canvass support”, he said. “Hence we should have a chance to look at his home – the immodestly-named Dowson Hall – whilst he is absent. Although we shall have to make sure that we leave an escape route, in case he returns along with his shotgun.”

I shivered at the picture. He saw my reaction, and was at my side at once.

“If I even suspected any danger from the man, I would use my own gun on him at once”, he said firmly. “Although I am sure that you, the better shot, would get him first.”

“I do not want to mark this trip across the Border with either of us being accused of killing someone”, I said, still nervous.

“We shall make some inquiries in the village first”, Sherlock said. “I have a telegram that I need to send, but I shall not be long. I am sure that by the time I get back, you will be prepared, naked and ready for me.”

I pouted. Now he was just using sex to try to distract me! I was not that predictable.

I told myself that several times whilst I hurried to get undressed.

+~+~+

My friend spent a lot of time the next day reading through the files that the chief-inspector had given him on Old Baron Dowson, whilst what was left of me spent a lot of time being grateful for Sherlock's foresight in packing that particularly soft cushion from Baker Street. Being woken by having your legs thrust right back, and then taken by someone who had not had their coffee yet – well, it was more effective than an alarm clock, even if the after-effects were longer-lasting. My stamina was not what it was now that I was barely a year out from being forty-nine plus one.

“The Baron has two other sons”, Sherlock said, smiling for some reason. “Alexander works as his estate manager, which I find a little unusual, and Andrew is away in Edinburgh training up as an accountant, presumably to assist in the running of the estate. I presume that Alexander must have been the person that I saw in the bar last night.”

I frowned at that.

“I do not remember you going to the bar”, I said.

“That was after Round Two”, he said airily. “You were so exhausted that you fell asleep straight away, so I slipped away to do some more work.”

That he had not been as exhausted as I was after our couplings last night was, if I am being honest, damnably annoying. He had done most of the work; I had just had to lie there and take it.

“Are you ready for the next round?” he asked innocently.

I stared at him in horror.

“Of toast”, he clarified, indicating the toast-rack.

I glared at him. The odds on a second unaccountable disappearance in this place had just shortened considerably!

+~+~+

Three days later, the case took an unexpected turn when Constable Hardwood, the Gretna policeman, came to us with news. 

“It looks like the case is over, sir”, he said, showing us a telegram. “This was received at the post office this morning, for Baron Dowson.”

Sherlock took the telegram and showed it to me. I read it:

'Father,  
Have purchased the smaller lot in Bangor, Tarker's Farm. Condition of same good, but will need new plows and other equipment for next year. Sorry for not telling you I was off, but the chance to buy came up suddenly, as you said it might. Will write soon.  
Alan.'

“Sent from a town called Belfast, in the state of Maine”, I observed. “There is a town called Bangor there, I recall, although I do not know how close they are. In that state, it could be many hundreds of miles!”

Sherlock read the telegram again, then smiled knowingly.

“Constable”, he said, “we need to know when the Baron is going out campaigning. I need access to his property to find something that he has hidden.”

“What is that, sir?”

“His eldest son's dead body.”

We both stared at him. He, being Sherlock, stared back.

“But he is alive, sir”, the constable said, his face clearly suggesting that he thought the English detective had gone more than slightly insane, but was too polite to say it out loud. 

“When is the baron not at home?” Sherlock pressed.

“Well, he has gone to Dumfries to campaign today, but....”

“Excellent!” Sherlock said. “Will he be back tonight?”

“No, sir. He always stays with his friend, Lord Richards, at Dee House.”

“Then we shall take the opportunity afforded by his absence, and with any luck have this case wrapped up by his return.”

“But sir, I would need a warrant....”

“You would, constable”, Sherlock said. “But not I. Does the Baron keep any guard dogs, do you happen to know?”

Despite his consternation, the constable snorted.

“He hates all animals except his horses!” he said firmly. “He has them in a stables, to the other side of town.”

“Servants?” Sherlock asked.

“Hates people almost as much as animals”, the policeman said. “All his staff come in and go out every day, and none of them has a good word to say about him.”

“Then I suggest that you see your chief-inspector, and tell him that he should find a judge who is prepared to grant him and you a warrant to search Dowson Hall”, Sherlock said. “Meanwhile the doctor and I are going to find a body!”

+~+~+

“I do not see how you got from that telegram to the Baron killing his eldest son”, I said plaintively as we walked the short distance out of Gretna to Dowson Hall. It was dark, and only the moonlight reflecting off the windows of the dark building ahead of us gave any light. “I saw nothing irregular about it.”

“That telegram was sent by an associate of the Baron, someone he knows who lives in the United States”, Sherlock said. “It was our great fortune that, because he wished it to sound genuine, the Baron did not dictate what he wanted to be said word for word, and his friend made two important errors.”

“What were they?” I asked.

“In the first place, he referred to buying 'the lot' rather than 'the land'”, Sherlock said. “That is an Americanism, as our erstwhile former subjects' language starts to establish its own quirks and grammatical rules.”

“He could have just been trying to fit in?” I said. Sherlock shook his head.

“The second mistake was worse”, he said. “He spelt 'plows' the American way, ending with '-w' rather than '-ugh'. Considering that he is supposed to only just have got there, I do not believe that he would change his spelling or his grammar that quickly. No, for whatever reason, Mr. Alan Armstrong is not in America, and I have every reason to believe that he is on the estate. Or at least six feet beneath it.”

We reached the large iron gate at the entrance to the Hall, which Sherlock picked his way through with hardly any effort at all, and walked swiftly up the driveway. The building was indeed as small as the constable had said, little more than a town house, although there was evidence that it had once been larger and that the rest had been knocked (or had fallen) down. There was no sign of life, and Sherlock led me round the back of the building. The river marking the Border ran along the east side of the property, and there was a small footbridge across it, which I thought odd as there was almost immediately a hedgerow marking the edge of the farm property on the opposite (English) side. I supposed that one could walk along the edge to resume the road by the property, although the river-bank looked precariously steep to me. 

Sherlock looked at the bridge and shook his head.

“A devious opponent”, he said. “Little wonder that he trained in the legal profession before inheriting his title.”

I followed his line of sight across the bridge, and could see that the ground had been disturbed on the opposite side. I gulped. The Baron had not actually... had he?

+~+~+

Although it was still September, the following day saw a sharp drop in temperature, which for some reason seemed to please Sherlock. I supposed, not being at all jealous on my part, it was because he himself was such a human furnace and would not feel the cold. Oh well, at least I would get to cud.... hold him that night.

Sherlock fired off another telegram as soon as the post office was open, and then made several inquiries in the town. They seemed rather odd to me, but over lunch he told me that Constable Hardwood had taken one Mr. Edmund Carrick, the town odd-job man, in for questioning, and the man had admitted that the Baron and his eldest son had had a huge argument over politics on the day before the young man had 'left', and that afterwards he had been asked to do some digging on the estate.

“We shall call on the Baron after lunch, once the chief-inspector arrives back from his travels”, Sherlock said. “Then I have one more thing to do whilst we are this side of the Border, and we can head for home.”

I perked up at that.

“Does it involve... The Kilt?” I asked, not at all trembling in anticipation.

“Yes and no.”

I decided that I did not like him, after all.

+~+~+

Baron Dowson received us at his ancestral home with a coldness that exceeded even that of the biting wind blowing in off the distant Irish Sea. He was a stopping fellow in his early sixties, and clearly Way Above Us in society. In his opinion, at least.

“I am busy, gentlemen”, he said, looking down his nose at us all. “What do you want?”

“We need to search your grounds, I am afraid, sir”, the chief-constable said. “In pursuit of your son's disappearance.”

“My son is in the United States, for his sins”, the Baron said.

“We have reason to believe that he is not”, the Chief-Inspector said. “Sir?”

The Baron sighed.

“I will of course watch your men whilst you look”, he said. “May I see your warrant?”

The chief-inspector handed him an official-looking document, which he read carefully before handing it back.

“This indeed indeed entitles you to search my Scottish estate”, he said. “That seems to be in order.”

Sherlock coughed pointedly. The Baron looked down his nose at him.

“And who might you be, sir?” he said haughtily.

“Mr. Sherlock Holmes, sir”, my friend replied. “Chief-Inspector?”

The policeman nodded.

“You will also need to read this, sir”, he told the Baron, presenting a second document. The Baron looked curiously at it.

“What is it?” he asked.

“A warrant from an English judge in Carlisle, granting us permission to search the small enclave of your land on the _English_ side of the river”, the chief-inspector said.

I thought at that moment that the Baron was going to have a seizure right there and then. He swayed precariously, staggered backwards, then turned and walked quickly away upstairs.

“Should we go after him?” the chief-inspector asked, looking warily at Sherlock.

My friend shook his head, and looked at his watch. My finger twitched on the gun that I had in my pocket, but the bad-tempered nobleman did not return. At least a minute passed, before there was the sound of a gunshot.....

+~+~+

The body of poor Mr. Alan Armstrong was duly found on the English side of the river. He had been shot four times, once at close range and three times in the back, presumably as he had tried to flee for his life. Without their master's baleful presence hanging over them, two of the servants confessed to what had transpired, an argument over the forthcoming election that had ended in bloodshed. The second son, Mr. Alexander, was implicated in the shooting and had definitely helped to bury the body; he subsequently fled for his life but was captured at Portpatrick waiting for a ferry to Ireland. He was fortunate in that the testimonies of the servants showed his role to be a minor one, so he did not hang for his actions, but he would be an old man before he breathed free air again. It all seemed very sad, especially when one considered that one single parliamentary seat was not really going to make that much difference to the election result (and it did not). But I suppose that some people feel politics as deeply as others feel religion.

+~+~+

Gretna Green was, as I have said, the place ever associated with marriage, because of the period of about eighty years (1770-1856) when the law against men absconding with unwilling (or sometimes, willing) girls was tightened in England, but the fast road to Scotland meant that many could flee there and be married 'over the anvil', a ceremony which, under Scots law, was as good as a church marriage in England. The little blacksmith's forge was, I thought, rather quaint, and the snooty female in charge of it had been boasting to some visitors about how they were booked up months in advance. Business, I suppose.

Sherlock was, rather disappointingly, not up for sexy times that evening. We went to bed cuddled together as normal, and when I woke, it was the feeling that I had really had nothing like enough sleep. It was pitch dark outside, and to my surprise Sherlock was not only up but fully dressed. In The Kilt.

“Not for that, John!” he grinned, dashing my hopes with four short words. “We have a little journey to undertake.”

I yawned, but dragged myself up, had a quick wash and went to get dressed. I was a little surprised that Sherlock had brought my own Campbell kilt, but put it on anyway. He led me out the back of the hotel, and we walked through a silent village to the smithy which, to my surprise, had a light on inside. Sherlock paused at the gate.

“Do you remember our friend, Mr. Vulcan Iden-Goring?” he asked.

“The Hammersmith Wonder”, I answered. The mighty Vulcan had provided us with one case and the grounds for a second. He had been quite unforgettable.

“I sent him a telegraph”, Sherlock said, “and he sent a message to the smith here, a Mr. Donald MacLean. There is a brotherhood amongst that ancient trade, and our mighty friend asked a favour. That favour has been granted.”

I gulped. Surely not....

Sherlock nodded.

+~+~+

In the dim light of a single candle, Sherlock and I had our union blessed 'over the anvil' in the village of lovers. There may or may not have been tears.

All right, there were. But from both of us, so that was all right.

+~+~+

Next time, England's smallest county provides some deadly sheep, and some deadlier sweets.


End file.
